


specular

by zauberer_sirin



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coulson's pov, F/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Working Out My Feelings Through Fic, no really angst angst angst, post episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:38:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/pseuds/zauberer_sirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not the first time Coulson loses someone under his command.</p>
            </blockquote>





	specular

**specular**

 

"because you were foolish enough to love one place,  
now you are homeless, an orphan"  
 _adult grief_ , louise gluck

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He remembers every man he has lost under his command. There hasn't been many – but there hasn't been _few_ either. After all Coulson has been doing this for a long time.

He remembers the first one, when he had been in command long enough that he was beginning to think he could defy statistics, that foolish confidence buzzing inside his skull. And he had known it was foolish. But it didn't matter. It was 1997. A part of him believed if it hadn't happened already it could never happen.

(it's always the hubris that does it)

The agent was older than him, more experienced, but the mission was still Coulson's. It wasn't not a particularly dangerous mission (intel retrieval, like 90% of the stuff they do) but it was not particularly _not dangerous_ either.

(that's normally how it goes)

His former Supervising Officer had warned him about this moment: This, you have to learn, is also part of your job.

The agent had a sister. There were calls to be made.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It surprises him, how heavy she is, when they try to carry her between four people. Skye is slight, a breeze of a girl, always had thought of her as paperlike. Death gives her weight. It also surprises Coulson that the idea is able to reach him, of the heaviness of her body, when no other coherent or helpful thought has thundered its way through the thick noise in his mind. Nothing helpful there right now, no. He can only follow Simmons' commands on a kind of auto-pilot, without processing what the orders mean. He holds Skye's head as they carry her those few endless steps to the chamber – but his fingers barely make contact, like one would hold a fluttering, frightened bird. But nothing flutters, there's no pulse, and he is the one who's frightened. He hears May ask a question and he repeats it – not because he understands the question but because he has the feeling the answer is really important and maybe if he shouts... The rest of the noise in his head is horror and calculations; the amount of blood on the floor and seeping through Skye's top and Coulson has seen enough people bleed to death to know the odds. He has seen enough people bleed to death and don't you dare forget that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Simmons is the only one brave enough to talk to him, or so it seems, after everbody else has given up hope of getting a reaction.

"We touch ground in sixty-five minutes," she says and if Coulson were paying attention to her voice (he isn't) he would notice the strands of coarseness trailing off each word, like someone tried to sandpaper the bravery out of her. She pauses but she is not finished: "You should get some rest, sir."

If Coulson could move, could look at her (he can't, and he can't) he would chuckle at that. He knows he is not being the kind of boss they deserve right now. It's not like he is doing it on purpose. He would want to be there for his team, comfort them, be resilient and resolute. Talk to them like this is all going to get fixed.

Talk to them at least.

Look at them at least.

There are so many ways of failing in this line of work. It's just that – he can't move. He can't afford to.

_If he lets go of the chamber, Skye will die._

_If he stops looking at her, Skye will die._

He knows none of this logical, or real. And more importantly, it's not useful. This is irrational and distracting. His conscious brain tells him it's ridiculous. But some part of him retains the rhyme. Like a piece of music stuck in your head for days. Coulson listens to the lithany without meaning to.

_if he lets go_  
if he stops looking  
she will  
she will  
she will... 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is not even the first time it's his fault.

(because it is his fault)

But that's not the way Coulson would put it. That is not official-speak. Because it's not productive, that line of thought. He might be responsible, not guilty – tricking himself to think there's a difference. It's not the first time this is his fault, but it had never _been his fault_ before. Even though he is the man with the plan (and he likes that wording, obviously) and not a man of action – he can hold his own, and he is not useless in a firefight, but there are hundreds of agents who can do better than him in that area. They don't send him in for the muscle. He is good at things hundreds of agents couldn't manage – like saying "thank you" and "please" and that sounds boring but Coulson and his superiors know it has saved just as many lives, if not more, than the entirety of SHIELD's combat ops.

Ha makes the calls, doesn't mean he has to take the blame.

He should be better at evaluating risks.

It's his forte, they say.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"I heard you were punching things," Coulson says. "I'm available."

Ward rolls his eyes, a gesture more full of purpose than usual. He is not interested in Coulson's shot at martyrdom. He doesn't look like he is interested in punishing him for the betrayal either – he suspects it's because Ward knows Coulson might enjoy that. Something has shifted between them, something has changed – Coulson doesn't know for how long and his mind is too full of irretrievable loss as it is.

"Grant."

Ward growls, chin raised in defiance. "Do you want to do this _now_?"

Coulson gives him a flash of a grin.

"Not really."

It's pretty close to asking for a favor (for Coulson, anyway) and Ward complies. With that they seem to reach an agreement.

"So what's the plan?" the younger agent asks.

Coulson can see him biting down his anger, his disappointment, pushing it to the back until a moment when it's not completely useless. The power of his set jaw – Ward almost _scary_ like this.

"Whatever it takes," Coulson says.

After Ward leaves he finally takes a shower, gets a change of clothes. There isn't even much blood on his suit. There wasn't any blood left to smear him by the time he got to Skye, it was all gone, bled away.

He makes a decision.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes it's just bad luck. And learning that is also part of the job.

Agent Rowlands had been the brightest hope of that Academy year; highest marks in Operations in over a decade. He remembers that.

Everybody wanted to be the first to get her on their team. Coulson didn't care about that sort of thing (intradeparment rivalries glossed over him – he was well liked enough and discrete enough, he had no ambition beyond getting the next job done, and done right) so when she was assigned to his detail Coulson didn't feel like he had –in Agent Blake's words– _won the rookie lottery_. She had been quiet and reserved around Coulson, in that way the smartest students always are, to avoid seeming pushy in front of their new boss.

Truth is Coulson didn't get to know her at all.

It was nobody's fault. And for once that was the honest truth and not politics or self-delusion. He had a large team with him, overpowering the enemy by a dozen. Rowlands, well protected, near the rear to take in the shape of the mission, she was meant to be getting a first taste of experience. The mission had been swift. The firefight kept to a bare minimum. A stray bullet and a cut (not too deep but deep enough, deep just in the right place) under her jaw was all it took.

The objective of the mission hadn't been a priority to anyone (that's what Coulson is, a middle-range kind of guy). Her death served absolutely no purpose. He didn't find it shocking, the waste of it, just profoundly numbing. And senseless.

(that's what he fears the most for himself – a death without any meaning)

 

 

 

 

 

 

He informs them of the change in their route. "HQ have ways of... fixing this kind of things."

Everybody looks at him like he has lost his mind. But also like they are really relieved he is the one with the decision-making again. Relieved they can inhabit this space again, the conference room where things tend to get _fixed_ , if it's anywhere it will be here; relieved despite the obvious absence by Coulson's side.

(and _it was_ always by his side)

He pushes a file towards them. Some of them are shocked by the name on it, some by the confidentiality restrictions stamped all over.

"Sir, we are not Level 8, we are not supposed to see this" Simmons points out.

 _Neither was I_ , but that's another conversation, a whole different secret.

"I don't care," he says. "If it can help Skye, you need to know this."

They all draw a hitched breath at the name. Again relieved he's the one to say it first.

"Know what?" asks Fitz, too focused to be patient. Ward and May exchange a look.

"You need to know about the day I died."

He tells them. He tells them everything – at least everything _useful_. He is susccint and clinical, his voice carefully drained of all emotion. He leaves the superfluous details out. Like the intense pain. The lies. The sense of betrayal.

(he doesn't tell them about the nightmares)

He talks about it as if it happened to someone else, and to his team's credit they act as if they knew this is how they are supposed to receive the story. They avoid his eyes through it all.

"Yes, but I don't imagine HQ is just going to hand us the elixir of eternal life because we happen to ask," Simmons says.

Coulson feels a pang of pride (or dismay, he's not sure) because she has learn to distrust authority so soon.

"No, they aren't," he agrees.

"Just so we are clear... we are breaking into SHIELD headquarters? Oh, okay then."

Ward puts his hand on Simmons' shoulder.

"Whatever it takes," he tells her, and it sounds a lot better than when Coulson said it.

No one disagrees.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He remembers the worst one.

(the worst one before this  
if this makes the list...)

The other times he could invoke the security clause – that this is his job, after all, their jobs. Everybody signed up knowingly and _freely_ (this part, like many things about SHIELD, is utter bullshit, yet the thing about Coulson is that he used to believe it wholeheartedly). Everybody knew the risks – that's the party line and he regurgitated it eagerly, because it prevented him from thinking too much.

But when civilian casualties were involved explanations (excuses) fell short. After all this is why _he_ had signed up – to protect people. And even Phil Coulson took a bad beating from time to time.

What he remembers: the then-not-yet-Director Fury sitting down with him, sitting down with two drinks, and telling him who was the first agent he had ever lost. He doesn't remember Fury's story at all, just the vague and selfish comfort of knowing that he'd lost people too.

 

 

 

 

 

He disobeys a lot of orders, breaks numerous protocols, incurs in damages of thousands of dollars. He knows he won't have to face any consequence for it. Everybody realizes Director Fury is playing favourites (maybe that's where Coulson picked up the habit). Coulson has always considered himself a model employee. He didn't think he had a streak of insubordination in him, but maybe that's not quite right. There are precedents: he stood by Barton and his decision of bringing Romanoff in on the team, against his better judgement and everybody's advice; certain unorthodox methods in dealing with the Asgardians in New Mexico; the inappropriate closeness to Stark and his world (Coulson remembers with fondness the emails he exchanged with Pepper Potts – he misses that sort of thing and wonders if there's any difference between real death and these lies).

Things quiet down after Skye is off the operating table, body pumped full of the miracle alien cure that could save her or burn her from the inside, they are still not sure which. Coulson makes half-assed efforts to mend some fences with SHIELD but mostly he and his team are left alone. After the operations it'll still be a while before they know if Skye is out of the woods and everybody kind of slumps, the rush of adrenaline of the last few days gone. FitzSimmons spend a lot of time together – and so do May and Ward. Coulson doesn't remember having left the hallway outside Skye's room, but he must have at some point.

"You can go in, you know," May tells him, slipping to his side without a sound, like always, watching him watch through the glass.

"She's unconscious."

"You can still go in."

He gives May _a look_ but she reciprocates with one of her own, holding her ground. That he can always count on May for – never letting him off the hook that easily.

He knows what May means. The rest have been in. Simmons has talked to a sleeping Skye for hours nonstop, convinced that is the key to her recovery. Even Ward and Fitz, both shy in their own peculiar ways, have dared a couple of words of encouragement here and there, short visits. May pulled a chair near Skye's bed and with a book in her hand kept her company in silence, specially at night. In silence except Coulson sometimes has seen her read lines from her book out loud to Skye.

"I can't," he says. Or whispers. Or just thinks. Whichever of the three he's sure May has heard it anyway.

After all they still don't know if Skye is going to wake up, or what kind of permanent damage she could sustain from the injuries. What would he say to her? That he screwed up? That she was completely unequipped to deal with the danger he kept putting her in but he hadn't cared? That he wishes they'd never picked her up from that dirty alleway in LA in the first place?

He remembers telling Lumley the girl was safe.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He remembers every body bag.

Every call to the family, spouses and friends.

The other side of his "thank you"s and "please"s is all the "i am sorry"s.

But he also remembers the could-have-beens. The missing-presumed-deads. Bodies never recovered. Cases never closed. The hospital rooms of Budapest. The brief moment of terror in thinking May was never coming out of that building in Bahrain. She never came out. He had to go in and get her.

He remembers Amador.

(he prays for another close-call, another misunderstanding, another error, _anything anything_ )

What was that Skye had said to him? _come back, come back, come back, come back_. He takes his place at her bedside and wishes he could say it back to her. He wants to. He's just afraid his words won't be as powerful as hers.

There are many ways of failing in his line of work.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Did we get Quinn?" is one of the first things she asks when she wakes up and Coulson feels almost angry at her for it.

Part of him is possibly very angry at her – and that's the only part of him that really believes she is here, alive, in front of him.

The robe she wears has little SHIELD watermarks stamped all over it. Coulson wonders suddenly who designs the things. He could swear she looks thinner, and she still looks too pale. He catches her rubbing her wounds absently through the fabric, stops it as soon as she notices him looking.

"Simmons said they could reduce the scars with plastic surgery, after a while," she says. "There'll always be a mark but it doesn't have to be so... uh."

"They have good doctors here," Coulson offers.

Skye smiles warmly at him: "I've noticed."

"Yeah."

"Do you think I'm shallow for saying that? I should be just happy to be alive and here I'm worrying about my gross scars."

Her tone is light but for some reason it makes Coulson feel a bit sick. His mouth goes dry. He doesn't know how to think about her body or apologize for what he's done.

During her recovery he visits but he never touches her. The rest do: Fitz's awkward boyhug and Simmons' extended embrace as Skye runs her fingers through the other girl's hair. May wouldn't do something that big, of course – Coulson suspects it would take for Skye to actually be dead before May would acquiesce to a hug, but she does flex her hands nervously over Skye's bed, as if she were trying to straighten the wrinkles on the bedsheet. Skye catches the gestures and presses a hand to May's elbow for a brief moment and that seems to be enough for Skye, and enough for May.

Halfway there, Ward gives Skye's shoulder a long squeeze in his best comforting S.O. capacity.

"Why isn't Ward talking to you?" she asks when they have a moment in which everyone else is gone. "Or looking at you? _At all_?"

Coulson feels weary just hearing the question, can't imagine himself trying to answer.

He doesn't have to.

"He can't think what happened is your fault?" she says tentatively. Nothing really escapes Skye, not even from a hospital bed. She is intuitive to the point where it sometimes scares Coulson, to the point he suspects it might be a disadvantage to her and not a skill.

"That's ridiculous," she continues.

"Is it?"

Ward wouldn't let him play martyr but maybe Skye will. Though judging from her frown right now he isn't in luck. There is not respect left fot authority in the world.

She sits up.

"It was important. I don't regret going in after Quinn," she says, then, less confidently: "I just have to work a little harder on... not getting shot and nearly dying and stuff."

 _Not nearly_ , he thinks. "I pushed you too hard. I put too much responsibility on your shoulders."

Skye seems taken aback.

"You trusted me–"

"And now I know I shouldn't have."

"Don't say that."

"Just because you were driven I shouldn't have assumed you would be safe. I apologize. You didn't have to pay for my arrogance."

"Just so you know, this whole conversation is worse than getting shot."

He looks at her and he is afraid of getting stuck in the moment he found her by the door of that damned basement. He remembers Simmons barking orders he only instintively understood. He remembers being afraid of touching Skye and letting Ward, Fitz and May carry the weight. He had been able to shove his hand inside the chest of an Asgardian berserker and squeeze the heart into working again without a second thought. But with Skye he had frozen. He had failed.

How long did she have to wait for help? How many minutes had she been bleeding before somebody came for her? Coulson wonders if she called for him.

"When Centipede had me hostage you found me. You saved me. I couldn't do the same for you."

His voice is softer now. Skye regards him with a quirked eyebrow: "Hey, I'm here. Aren't I? I think that pretty much counts as you saving me."

"But I didn't."

Annoyance swiftly empties from her gaze and all that is left is something large and sad and how can this girl ever hope to be part of this organization wearing her heart on her sleeve like that.

He senses her body tense before she reaches out to touch him –his hand, maybe– but Coulson moves away faster.

He hasn't touched her since he helped move her lifeless white-and-red body into the chamber and in a twisted sort of way he is convinced the enchantment would break if he does and Skye would stop _being alive_. This one is a ridiculous thought, but one suddenly vital to Coulson.

_if he touches her  
if he touches her...._

 

 

 

 

 

 

There is of course another person Coulson lost under his command. A loss so strangely intimate, and so unrelatable. But there was no family to call. (there was a call, but he didn't make it, and it was a lie)

(he realizes there would have been no call in Skye's case either; no family, and everybody in the world who cared about her was on this plane)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Everyone is settling back to their own routine almost too easily.

He almost believes that if he lets everything stand like this things will go back to normal. If he doesn't interfere too much. Forgetting is easy, he discovers. And dangerous.

Skye resumes not just her responsibilities on the team but also her training. She becomes even more set than before on mastering combat techniques, on improving her chances the next time. She is working Ward around the clock (Ward is only too happy to oblige, but for all of Skye's protestations he hasn't cleared her for field work yet). She hasn't come out of the experience with the fear of the close-call but with a resolution to become stronger. Coulson knew she wouldn't take it any other way. A part of him resents her for that.

If he leaves her alone she will be back to the way it was. (He can only leave her alone _to a certain extent_ , or she will notice)

She will be fine. She will be fine without him.

It's only when he catches her alone one morning in front of the punching bag, not practising, lifting her top and looking down at the scars on her stomach, looking as if they were something alien, something not belonging to her, that he decides to tell her.

"Skye."

Startled, she quickly pulls down her t-shirt, as if she suspects Coulson can know exactly what she is thinking.

He makes her follow her to his office.

"I want to tell you something," he says.

He tells her about the day he died. And everything afterwards. At least everything he remembers. Everything he suspects he will never completely remember. He tells her about the pain with precision, but not with detachment. He tells her about feeling like he was wearing a body that was not his for a long time. How he began to distrust his own thoughts. He doesn't leave any detail out. Not even for his benefit, not even for Skye's.

(he tells her about the nightmares)

Afterwards he doesn't remember the exact words he used. Or how he could get through it. How either of them could get through it. Skye never breaks eye contact – though in a couple of moments he wishes she would, can see her fighting _not to_. Wet cheeks – he once held her face in his hands when she cried, but he can't do that now. Because this is not just about her. He needs comforting too.

"Can I see it?"

Coulson stares at her, dumbfounded, because she can't be asking–

"The scar," she explains. "It's cool if you don't–"

The rest of her sentence is cut short by the movement of his wrist pushing the tie out of the way before he begins to unbutton his shirt. Her mouth forms a tiny _Oh_ when the scarred skin is exposed, when she takes in the size of the damage.

He doesn't like to look at it himself and the gaze of another person is still overwhelming. He has only ever showed it to May before – but in that as in everything May is different, Coulson's brother-in-arms; they have been together in too many missions, patched each other's wounds too many times, seen each other in pain, shame, or despair.

But now it's Skye seeing it. It's different. It has to be.

He watches her looking at it. He can tell she is trying to swallow something down, but it's not repulsion, or shock. It's not even pity like he has been expecting. It's sadness. That's the thing about Skye, he thinks.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know." Like it's her shortcoming, not his. Coulson could try to explain he didn't want to burden her with this, too, but this is the moment he realizes Skye would have never seen it as a burden, or if she would it'd be a kind of weight she'd welcome.

"I should have told you," he confesses.

"Must have hurt."

"It was quick," he tries to lie. But: " _No_ , it wasn't quick. It hurt."

"Mine wasn't quick either."

"I'm sorry."

"It wasn't your fault."

He nods sligthly. The funny thing: he feels himself believing her. He watches her move her hand towards him and stops himself from recoiling.

"Is it okay?" she asks him before she touches the scar.

He nods again, a strange knot in his throat.

She applies one fingertip, then two, carefully. Coulson feels very small, a small man. It's not an entirely horrible feeling – he feels like a person, ordinary, tiny, but present. Her hand is colder than he anticipated, the awkwardness of the touch only makes it more real.

Lately Coulson has come to appreciate _real_ above everything else, and this is.

"I'm sorry you had to go throught all that," Skye tells him, voice raspy. "But I'm not sorry you survived. I _can't be_."

Coulson wants to touch her hair, damp from the effort of training but still looking so soft. He wants to just reach out – but luckily he reminds himself why he can't.

She applies the gentlest pressure on his chest, as if to make a point: "You are alive."

"So are you."

"Yeah."

"What happened to me, it changed me. And I'm sure this will change you. But we are both still here. We might as well put that to good use," he tells her, because right now he doesn't know how to be something other than useful, and he knows Skye has strived for purpose too.

She grins.

"I guess we have something in common now."

"I guess so."

"Deadly Wounds Survivors Club. I can dig that."

"I'll get us matching bracelets."

Skye laugh-snorts. Coulson can feel it through her hand on his chest, like ripples on water. He looks down at it, with some curiosity. He reaches; this time he doesn't remind himself of _can't_ , he is just content with _want_. He brushes his own fingers against the soft upside of her hand, still fearful to do so.

The enchanment is not broken.

She is still here, alive, in front of him.


End file.
